


On Call

by renecdote



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: BUE (Big Uncle Energy), Bonding, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Humour, Jim is In the Know, Vigilantism, worrying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:49:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22023631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renecdote/pseuds/renecdote
Summary: He keeps three things in the secret drawer-within-a-drawer; the first is whiskey (don’t tell Barbara), the second is a pack of Marlboro Red (just in case it’s One Of Those Nights), the third is a secret radio that only works on three channels.The one where Jim Gordon answers a call for help and wonders how Bruce and Alfred handle all the worry that comes with having vigilante kids.
Comments: 24
Kudos: 148
Collections: Batfam Christmas Stocking 2019





	On Call

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rockygetsrolling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockygetsrolling/gifts).



> I wrote all of this then went back to the prompt and realised I hadn’t quite hit the mark, but uh, I hope it’s close enough. 
> 
> Writing Jim was a lot of fun, I hope you enjoy my take him on him G :)

There is a secret draw in Commissioner Jim Gordon’s desk. It’s hidden beneath a false bottom that Barbara set up for him (in the days before he Knew, when he still dared to ask how she came by such legally ambiguous skills, instead of deciding it was better not to know), in the third drawer down, left side of the desk. He keeps three things in the secret drawer-within-a-drawer; the first is whiskey (don’t tell Barbara), the second is a pack of Marlboro Red (just in case it’s One Of Those Nights), the third is a secret radio that only works on three channels. 

The first channel is a hotline for the Batcave.

The second channel is for the Clocktower. 

Commissioner Gordon isn’t supposed to know about either of those places. But Jim Gordon? Father, friend, something like an uncle to the (ever growing) group of children that call Wayne Manor home—frankly, he knows more than he’s strictly comfortable with. Ignorance thy friend, you were bliss. 

The third channel isn’t a place. Barbara had explained to him once how their communicators worked. Something about different frequencies and emergencies and a group chat analogy that had gone right over Jim’s head. He’d nodded anyway, pretending he understood more than he did. He got the gist of it, so that’s all that really mattered. The gist was: the third channel on the super secret radio that lived in the super secret drawer of his (not at all secret) desk was connected to the frequency that the bats used to broadcast to everyone if they were in trouble. 

“So I could call Batman, if I wanted?” Jim had asked.

“If you needed to,” Barbara had corrected, but her lips had been twitching the way they did when she was trying not to smile. 

Jim thinks about that radio a lot. Thinks about it but never gets the chance to use it because Batman has an uncanny knack for showing up right when he’s needed. It would be annoying, if it wasn’t so… No, no, actually it is annoying. The roof is one thing, but his office? Someone could walk in at any time! 

“I have a radio, you know,” Jim points out one day. “You could call ahead.”

Batman’s jaw remains stoic, his stare as unrevealing as ever, and Jim sighs. Yeah, he didn’t think that would work.

* * *

There are two things Jim Gordon knows with absolute certainty. One: Batman is good. Two: Bruce Wayne is a bastard. 

“They’re your kids,” Jim hisses into his mobile (secure, untraceable, thank you Barbara.)

Bruce (bastard) doesn’t seem bothered by Jim’s tone. Or the extremely factual nature of his point. “ _I’ve been called away on business and Alfred is still in England. Oracle is in charge, but I just need someone to check in on them, make sure they’re not…_ ”

“Terrorising the city?” _And giving me even more grey hair?_

“ _I was going to say ‘getting into trouble they can’t handle’._ “

Jim doesn’t think there is much that Bruce Wayne’s kids can’t handle, but he doesn’t think it’s the right time to point that out. 

“I run the entire police force in this city,” he says. Bruce knows this, uses it to his benefit on many occasions, but sometimes Jim thinks his friend forgets just what the job title ‘Commissioner’ means. “Do you know how much paperwork that involves? How many meetings? How much of said paperwork and meetings is about vigilantes running loose in Gotham City?”

“ _Jim._ “ It’s that tone. The one that means Jim’s resolve is absolutely screwed because he’s not talking to Batman anymore, he’s talking to Bruce. “ _Please._ “

Ah fuck, Jim thinks. He takes off his glasses and rubs at the tension in hie temples. If the rest of the city knew that the most powerful weapon in Batman’s arsenal was the word please, nobody would fear him. His fear-mongering, his drama, his mystique, his cult following, his street cred—it would all be ruined. 

Jim sighs. “What do I have to do?”

* * *

Forty minutes into what Jim is privately calling babysitting, it all goes to hell. The secret radio blares to life with a distress call and Jim is so shocked by the sudden voice coming to life under a pile of paperwork that he jumps. Damn bats, startling him even when they’re not sneaking into his office. 

“ _Mayday, mayday,_ “ Spoiler is saying. “ _I am being fired upon by lots of guys with big guns, this is not a drill._ ”

Jim curses as he shoves aside papers, case reports and requisition forms going flying, finally scooping up the radio just as Spoiler’s voice cuts off with a strangled yelp. He waits a beat before responding, wondering where the hell Barbara is. This has to be about the worst possible time for Oracle to be busy with another case. 

“Spoiler?” he says, trying not to sound too alarmed. If one of these kids dies on his watch, forget Batman, Jim is never going to forgive himself. “Spoiler, are you still there? It’s…” He hesitates there, unsure if he’s supposed to be using a code name, or a call sign, or whether he should just go with Commissioner Gordon. Spoiler’s voice comes back before he can decide.

“ _I’m here,_ “ she says. “ _I’m down near the docks, warehouse 8C. Please tell me you have officers in the area, Commish._ ”

Jim is already reaching for his phone, punching numbers one-handed to connect him to the precinct closest to her area. He feels like he should be running out of his office to provide backup himself, but he’s not irrational enough to know that he probably wouldn’t get there in time. Right now, he’s more useful to Spoiler stuck behind his desk. 

“Two cruisers are on the way, ETA two minutes,” he reports a handful of seconds later. “Are you in a safe position? Are you hurt?”

“ _I’m good,_ ” Spoiler replies. 

She sounds breathless, but Jim can’t tell if it’s because she’s been running or because she’s bleeding out and just didn’t think it was important enough to tell him. He thinks about Stephanie Brown sitting on his couch, crying over a carton of chocolate fudge ice cream, knee in a brace, blond hair falling over Barbara’s shoulders as they hugged. It’s hard to imagine Stephanie being anything except unrepentantly open and honest, but then again, Jim met her four times before he knew she ran around in a purple hood and never suspected a thing. 

“Can I do anything else?” Jim asks. His fingers twitch toward his mobile. Maybe he should call Barbara, just to check-in, update her on Spoiler’s situation just in case she missed it. 

“ _I’m good,_ ” Spoiler says again. There’s a pause where he can hear her breathing, line still engaged, then she adds, “ _Actually, if you’re not busy, I was trying to track down an informant, name’s Johnny Bea—that’s b-e-a, not just the letter b—he hasn’t been in any of the usual haunts lately and I’m getting kinda worried. He’s just a kid, you know? Maybe you can tell me if he was picked up by the police for anything?_ ”

“Johnny Bea,” Jim repeats to himself, calling up the GCPD database to type in the search. He gets two hits, but skips right over the first one (too old) and skims the file. Jonathan Lewis Bea, seventeen years old, arson and resisting arrest. “Your kid into arson? If so, he’s here, processed at the two-four three days ago.”

“ _Damn,_ ” Spoiler swears. Jim gets the feeling she wants to use much stronger language but is holding herself back. She starts to say something else, but there is a burst of gunfire, and then she really does swear. 

Jim’s fingers tighten around the radio, worry and anticipation coiling in his chest. Does Bruce feel like this every time he hears his kids radio for help? he wonders. Hell, does he feel like this even when they don’t, knowing the kind of trouble they could get into at a moment’s notice?

“Spoiler?” he says again. 

The reply is longer coming this time. Jim is half standing, reaching for his gun and badge, ready to run out the door, distance be damned, when her voice finally comes through.

“ _Sorry, sorry, I’m okay. Your officers showed up just in the nick of time._ ”

Jim sinks into his chair with his sigh of relief. He catches his reflection in the window and wonders whether it’s just his imagination that it looks more grey than it did this morning. These kids… He shakes his head. Maybe the real reason Batman wears a cowl is to hide how grey his kids are making him. Jim chuckles to himself; he’ll have to remember to tell Alfred that one.

“Do you need anymore help, Spoiler?” He asks.

“ _I’m good now, thanks again Commish,_ ” comes the cheery reply. 

Jim puts the radio down, but he doesn’t relax for the rest of the night. Not until Barbara texts to let him know everyone is home safe.

* * *

The next night, Jim arrives at Barbara’s apartment with Chinese takeout in one hand and the trusty radio in his coat pocket. It’s been quiet since last night, but Jim has been strangely reluctant to part with it. Just in case. He wonders whether this is what Alfred feels like all the time, constantly waiting for the next call for help, praying he hears it in time to send assistance. 

When Barbara opens the door, Jim is surprised to find Stephanie sitting at the counter. She’s dressed in yoga pants and an oversized blue hoodie, blonde hair twisted up into a loose bun to keep it out of the bowl of cereal she’s eating. Jim finds himself looking for any hint of injury in her movements as she turns around toward the door.

“Hi, Commissioner,” she calls with a cheery wave. Jim keeps telling her to call him Jim, but the formal title has stuck.

“Hello, Stephanie,” he returns, even as he’s quirking an eyebrow in Barbara’s direction. “I didn’t realise you would be joining us for dinner. Not that I mind, but I would have ordered more spring rolls.”

“Steph just dropped by to pick something up,” Barbara says. “She can’t stay.”

Stephanie looks disappointed to be missing out on Chinese food, but she seconds Barbara’s assertion that she can’t stay. Important things to do, places to be—she gives the flimsy excuse with a careless wave of her hand. Jim smiles, sharing in the secret. 

“It was nice to see you, Stephanie,” he says. He has an urge to tell her to stay safe out there, but in the warm light of Barbara’s open-plan living room, it feels like crossing an unwritten boundary. 

“You too, Commish,” Stephanie says. She’s almost to the door when she stops and doubles back to hug him. The unwritten boundary wobbles as she whispers a thank you against the collar of his coat.

“Anytime,” Jim replies, voice gruff for his low tone. He feels the weight of the radio in his pocket as he hugs her back. Not a burden, but a reassurance. 

* * *

There is a secret draw in Commissioner Jim Gordon’s desk, hidden beneath a false bottom in the third drawer down, left side of the desk. He keeps two things in the secret drawer-within-a-drawer; the first is whiskey (don’t tell Barbara), the second is a pack of Marlboro Red (just in case it’s One Of Those Nights). There used to be three, but now he carries a secret bat communicator around instead of a radio, just in case there is ever a call for his help.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr is [here](https://renecdote.tumblr.com/)


End file.
